


Morbid Jokes

by Emilia0001



Category: Natsume Yuujinchou | Natsume's Book of Friends
Genre: Dark Past, Drama, I'm Going to Hell, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Natsume Loves Metaphors, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, There Really Isn't Any Comedy At All
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 23:10:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7127192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emilia0001/pseuds/Emilia0001
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once again he was mentally hitting himself over the head for comparing suicide to flowers and sunshine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morbid Jokes

 

If Earth was where okay was located, Takashi was probably somewhere on Mercury.

 

He laughed bitterly at his own down-to-earth overwatch and totally-not-biased view of life. It obviously wasn't that someone and anyone had pried the uselessness of his existance into his mind with a metaphorical hammer. (Note the-smug-but-not-completely-unjustified sarcasm.)

Sometimes, he just couldn't help but blame his own misfortune on some, for the most part, innocent bystander over his losing the birth lottery. And they all did the same to him with the misfortune of then being forced into taking him in for a few months. It's like he was some sort of virus being passed on from household to household, never once leaving the family in the same condition as when he had arrived. They were the ones that had suffered, in reality.

These where the things he usually spent the remaining time of the night thinking about as he tossed and turned in his bed after an especially dark and realistic nightmare. Tonight was one of those nights, though magnified to be even worse. The dream was like a subplot stolen directly from out of an early 90's western soap opera - a plot too cliché to take the spotlight but melodramatic enough to gain the attention from especially dedicated watchers.

The dream was horrifyingly realistic, and a memory rotten enough to have been chained up and tucked away for a good amount of time. Not long enough though, Takashi argued and cursed in his mind.

He dragged himself out of his bed for a routine shower just as early as any other day, though he'd rather just stay under his covers all day long and hug his poor pillow that would undoubtedly had hated him if it had feelings. Takashi greeted both his caretakers, ate a luxurious breakfast and made small talk (purposefully dodging Touko's comments about how his skin was even paler than usual and how glassy and swollen his eyes were) and bowed when Touko handed him the bento he knew was made with love that warmed his heart a little bit. Then he was off to school, like any other day, carrying the Book of Friends in his bag with him as usual.

 

In class he greeted Nishimura like he always did and spent his time daydreaming through boredom until class started and then he pretended to invest himself in transparent teachers and chalkboards, bland pupils all with the same face an clothes that threw white, soundless paper planes as the teacher finally gave up on the hopeless studens and so did Takashi on pretending.

He slumped down on his desk, staring at classmates scalps and trying to imagine each unavoidable future for every teen, as he had nothing better to do. Each looked just as murky as the next with the exceptions of those others who's existance just seemed to ooze style and possibilities. _The minority._ No middle ground, which was annoying.

Takashi imagined this was how the teacher was feeling right now.

And Takashi was starting to get fed up. Maybe it was because he had been spoonfed luxury for the last couple of months, but the distance between positive and negative had grown so much larger, and once again he was mentally hitting himself over the head for comparing suicide to flowers and sunshine. He frowned at his almost illegal amount of smugness and didn't know if he was to cry or laugh, of which one he did.

And it was not the second option. Takashi stood up adruptly, scraping the chair along the floor. The sound vibrated through his body like an earthquake had just stared, and he hastilly excused himself. He grabbed his bag dangling from a hook at the side of his desk and threw it over his shoulder as he quickly but not very gracefully made his way out into the hallway and towards the first empty classroom he could fine. There he let his exhaustion get the best of him.

 

He was scraping the bottom of the barrel here, trying to dristact himself from his memories with rude and morbid inside jokes about society and normal everyday life. And now he payed the bill by having scraped through the barrel completely, bottom and all the way to the floor, never to be filled again. Knock on wood.

Anxiety had be eating at him and he let it out. Out, out, out. He sobbed, and sobbed and sobbed. Why? Because of that horrid nightmare. Memories that he wished were only dreams and twisted fiction. As a child he thought it was all that he deserved, that he had himself to blame for the incidents. That he was the one who were disgusting. Then, as he grew older, it got even more agonising, because he realised that wasn't the case anymore, but that it was to late to tell anyone.

 

He had realised by the age of eleven or twelve, maybe thirteen, that he wasn't like his other classmates. He wasn't interested in the magazines they used to sneek out to look at durning break, but he felt that it was right to pretend he was. The curves, F-cups and erotic faces didn't even excite him. Instead, one day when he happened to stumble upon an underwear advertisement he found himself much more drawn to the overexaggerated bulges and abs in the men's section than the curvy and petite models in the woman's. He realised he was _different._ And his, at the time, current _single male_ caretaker, found out - it went downhill from there.

It wasn't as if he liked it, oh _hell no._ It wasn't as if he had even been that young. He was a boy of barely sixteen years old now. It was probably his fault for not fighting back enough, he had told himself. Now, he wasn't that sure anymore. He was the _victim_ here, wasn't he? And still, he felt so guilty. He felt so ugly. Ashamed. Disgusting. Like he'd been rolling in mud for the past two or so odd years.

 

He pleaded, and pleaded and pleaded for someone to erase it all, and in desperate attempts to erase it he clawed at his skin for some time, begged for help in nasal whimpers and then clawed some more and watched jarring colour bleed from swollen hills of white carved into his wrists.

 

 

_Help never came._


End file.
